Between Two Seas (16 page)

‘Thank you.’ A flush of pleasure adds to the colour in my cheeks.

‘Yes, very nice indeed,’ repeats Annette. ‘And do you have a little time, Mikkel, to wait while I show Marianne what I’d like her to do next?’

‘Of course,’ says Mikkel politely.

Annette fetches more work for me, spreading it out on the dining table. I get up to look.

Mikkel wanders out. I can hear him talking. I’m straining to hear if it’s Peter he’s talking to, and what they are saying, but I can’t make it out.

‘Now, Marianne. I’m giving you a tablecloth to do next, and I’d like you to put some of your blue flowers in each of the four corners. You do those so beautifully. And something in the middle. Do you have any ideas? I thought perhaps a wreath of flowers?’

I force myself to focus on what she’s saying to me.

‘A wreath would be pretty,’ I respond absently. My mind is with Peter.

Usually I enjoy my time with Annette, but today I’m longing to escape. I want to see Peter again before I leave, hoping to read something more friendly in his face.

There’s a knock at the front door and Annette hurries to answer it. When I hear her ushering friends in, I slip out to the workroom to find Peter and Mikkel. They don’t see me at first. Peter is scowling at Mikkel. As I walk in, I hear him say, ‘Why don’t you just take your sweetheart and go, and stop bothering me with idle chatter.’ It sounds so unlike him. I pause in the doorway, astonished.

‘I told you, she’s not my sweetheart, we’re friends,’ says Mikkel, sounding taken aback.

‘So that’s why you were hugging her right under my nose, is it?’ demands Peter.

I can’t believe it, he’s jealous.
Jealous
. He’s dropped the nets and is glaring at poor Mikkel. Mikkel sees me. His fair face is flushed red.

‘Marianne, Peter seems to think … ’

I, too, am embarrassed by the situation. ‘It’s true,’ I stammer. ‘We’re just friends.’ Peter looks sceptical. I walk over to him and put my hand on his arm, forcing myself to look directly at him. ‘It’s true,’ I assure him. As we look at each other, I see the anger and jealousy fade from his face. His eyes soften, making me feel breathless. I hear Mikkel shift uncomfortably behind me, but he is spared by Annette bustling into the room, my parcel of work in her arms, and some coins in her hand.

‘Ah, there you are, Marianne,’ she says. ‘Here’s your next work and your payment.’

Peter grins a little shamefacedly at me as we shake hands to leave. I also hear him muttering a brief word of apology to Mikkel.

‘
Farvel
, Peter,’ I say. Goodbye. And then I step outside and wade back to the boat.

As Mikkel takes the oars and turns the boat to row away, I look back. Peter is at the door with his mother, and lifts his hand in a farewell gesture. I wave back and smile.

‘Can I have a turn rowing?’ I ask Mikkel as soon as we are out of sight of the house.

‘I wish you’d said before we started,’ complains Mikkel. ‘Now we’ll have to change places. Can you wait until we are out into the main street? There’ll be more people on hand to help when you overturn us.’

This time I completely take his bait:

‘What do you mean, overturn us?’ I cry indignantly. ‘What makes you—’

And then I stop myself abruptly. Mikkel is grinning broadly at me. Annoyed with myself, I dip my hand into the water, scoop up a handful, and throw it at him.

It catches him in the face, leaving droplets of water on his spectacles. He takes up the challenge at once. Unfortunately for me, he has the oars. A great wave of water drenches me, leaving me gasping.

‘Please, don’t: it’s much too cold!’

Then we’re both laughing. The awkwardness following the misunderstanding at the Hansens’ has been overcome.

‘All right, you can row. As long as you promise not to use the oars to splash me.’

‘That’s hardly fair,’ I point out indignantly.

‘Promise, or you don’t have a turn,’ Mikkel insists.

‘Very well then, I promise.’ I’m keen to try rowing.

It is harder to change places in a small boat than I had thought.

‘Keep your weight as low as possible. Whatever you do, don’t stand up,’ Mikkel instructs.

I do try, but the boat rocks wildly as we get in one another’s way trying to swap seats. I end up banging my knee and stubbing my toes again. Unladylike words rise to my tongue, but I bite them back.

‘Take the oars,’ says Mikkel, holding them out towards me.

I grasp them.

‘But they are so heavy!’ I can’t help exclaiming, as I struggle to hold the unwieldy shafts.

‘What did you expect?’

Mikkel’s chuckling. He enjoys teaching me things he can do well. It gives him a sense of superiority. He needs that. His dreadful father despises him so much.

‘You need to make sure they are tilted right, with the blade vertical, before you try to pull with them,’ Mikkel explains. ‘Lean forward, push the oars back, lower them into the water. That’s right. Now pull on them.’

One oar digs deep and gets stuck, the other flies up out of the water, spraying us both. The boat spins wildly and I almost fall off my seat.

‘No, not like that,’ Mikkel laughs. He leans towards me. Putting his hands on mine, he guides my next few strokes until I get a feel for how it should be.

After a few minutes, Mikkel lets me try alone again. This time I do better, but I’m amazed at how much strength it takes. My strokes are ragged and uneven, and my arms quickly begin to ache. I’m weak after the two long months we had without enough food. I know I’ve lost weight, because my dress hangs loose on me still.

Mikkel is a patient teacher, and I persevere. We make our way slowly back through the town, turning only the occasional circle. Mikkel takes the oars again the last stretch. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but my arms, my shoulders, and back are aching unbearably and my palms are sore.

‘Would you like to practise some more tomorrow?’ Mikkel asks.

I hesitate a moment, thinking of Peter. But I’m not going to miss the chance to learn to row.

‘Yes, please. I should like that very much. Perhaps we could go down as far as the post. I have a letter to send to England now I finally have some money.’

‘Yes, of course,’ promises Mikkel. ‘You did well today,’ he admits. ‘I was surprised. Boats must be in your blood.’

‘Yes, I think they must be,’ I agree quietly.

I
awake at first light, which is early now that we’re in April. The days are lengthening. I have to get up to prepare breakfast for Morten and Jakob before they go fishing. Their team is working on the west coast at the moment. I ease myself out of bed, trying not to disturb Lise or her sisters. But this morning she must be sleeping lightly, because she wakes at once.

‘Try and go back to sleep,’ I whisper.

I shake the boys awake and then go out to the kitchen. Lifting the turf I laid over the embers last night, I painstakingly feed and gently blow on the glow until I have a small fire. It’s a good morning when the fire lights easily.

‘
Må jeg hjælpe?
’ asks Lise. Can I help? She’s already out of bed.

‘Shhh!’ I hush her. ‘Don’t wake your mother and sisters yet. You can break up the bread,’ I tell her, passing her a stale rye loaf. I pour water into the pan from the jug, and put it in front of her. She pulls the bread into chunks with her small fingers and drops it into the water, while I slice the dried fish for the midday meal and put it in water to soak. It is wonderful to have enough food in the house again after the months of hunger we endured.

‘Don’t throw the bread in, Lise,’ I remind her as the water splashes right out of the pan.

When she’s finished, I add some ale and put the pan over the fire to bubble gently. It makes a thick, sour gruel, which we eat some mornings for our breakfast. When money is very short we have to make do with dried or salted fish only. The gruel is more filling.

It’s a relief not to be standing ankle deep in water in the kitchen any more. There have been many days over the last few weeks when I had to do just that. Now the water levels have dropped and the sand floor is merely damp. The advantage of the high water was that I learned to row. I’m proud of my rowing skills.

Morten and Jakob stumble out into the tiny kitchen, fully dressed, rubbing their eyes and yawning. They eat their breakfast standing up, shovelling the hot food into their mouths as quickly as possible, because dawn is turning the sky grey in the east. They set out barefoot for the west coast. Like most of the poor families in Skagen, they can’t afford boots or waterproofs, but work up to their chests in seawater all year round, dressed only in thick, hand-knitted woollens. Often the fishing is done at night. It’s a wonder to me they keep healthy.

‘Come and help me put away our bed, Lise,’ I urge, as soon as I hear the baby crying and the other children stirring.

‘
God morgen
, Lene,’ I say as I see she’s awake. But Lene chooses to ignore me today.

After breakfast, once the older girls have gone to school, I spend a couple of hours mending everyone’s clothes. I look longingly at my embroidery, but that will have to wait until the chores are done.

At noon I fry fish and wrap them for the boys to eat.

‘I want to come with you,’ Lise begs me. ‘I don’t want to be left behind with mother.’

I hope she didn’t overhear that.

‘It’s too far to the west coast, Lise,’ I tell her. She hunches an angry shoulder and stalks off behind the house.

Taking the wheelbarrow from the shed to bring the boys’ share of the catch back in, I head for the west coast. In fine weather, it’s one of the pleasantest parts of the day. There’s also always the hope I’ll see Peter out fishing, but today I don’t.

I find the fishing team on the beach sharing out the morning’s catch.

‘
Frokost!
’ Lunch, I say to Morten and Jakob as I hand over the food.

‘
Tak
,’ Morten replies, as he loads the barrow with their share of fish.

Pushing it back home is hard physical work, but I’ve got stronger through the spring.

On the return journey I spot a figure with binoculars lying in last year’s dead brown heather. It can only be Mikkel.

Glad of the excuse to rest, I abandon my wheelbarrow and pick my way through the heather towards him, wary of adders.

‘
Hej
, Mikkel!’ I greet him.

He rolls over to look at me, a finger on his lips and I approach as quietly as possible until I am crouching beside him.

‘Can you see the larks? They are full of joy that the spring has come at last!’ Mikkel whispers, his face shining with pleasure.

I smile at him.

‘I’m very well thank you, how are you?’ I respond.

Mikkel looks puzzled.

‘I didn’t ask how you were, did I?’

‘No, but as you haven’t seen me for over a week, it would have been polite,’ I remark.

Mikkel merely grins and turns back to the larks.

I can hear them singing before I see them. Mikkel is right. It’s a clear song, ringing with joy.

He points out the tiny brown lark to me as it spirals up into the sky. It is hard to believe such a big song can come from such a small bird.

‘Would you like a turn with the binoculars?’ Mikkel asks. ‘Here. You focus them by turning this,’ he explains. I notice his hands are raw and cracked, and have been bleeding.

‘Your poor hands!’ I exclaim.

He whips them out of sight, and I understand he doesn’t want to talk about it.

I turn away and look through the binoculars. It takes me a few moments to find the lark. I catch my breath, as I realize I can see every detail of its markings; it looks so close I could touch it.

Mikkel is sketching it as I watch. His drawing isn’t bad.

‘Can I have a go?’ I ask longingly.

Taking a last, long look, I hand over the binoculars and sketch the bird. It feels good to have a pencil in my hand again. As I try to capture the essence of its shape and markings, I become completely absorbed, forgetting where I am.

‘Superb, Marianne!’ breathes Mikkel. The scent of the heather and the sound of the lark’s song return as his words reach me. ‘I wish I could draw like that.’

‘I’ll try and teach you,’ I promise, handing back the sketchbook regretfully.

I get up, brushing bits of dried heather from my skirt.

‘I haven’t seen much of you,’ I say, trying not to make it sound like a complaint. ‘Have you been busy?’

Mikkel’s face darkens.

‘My father decided it was time to have another go at making a fisherman of me.’ He gets up too, and the pleasure that lit his face while he was watching the lark is gone.

‘And has he succeeded?’ I ask cautiously.

‘Hardly. I was shouted at for not rowing strongly enough. And when I was helping with the nets … ’ Mikkel falls silent, scowling at a memory.

‘Tell me?’ I encourage him.

‘The nets tear my hands and the salt water burns them. I was trying my best to ignore it, I really was. Pulling hard on the nets. Not hard enough for my father though. He kept taunting me. Comparing me to Christen, my younger brother. Reminding me that he’s two years younger than me, but already doing the work of a grown man.’

Mikkel pauses again, audibly grinding his teeth.

‘So I pulled even harder. And slipped. I was standing up to my waist in water at the time, so I went right under. I swallowed seawater. My father practically hauled me out of the water by my hair. And he forced
snaps
down my throat. He knows I hate the stuff. It made me choke and I was sick. Over him, of course. He sent me home in disgrace and that was that.’

‘I’m so sorry! You should have told me before,’ I say, but I can see in his face why he didn’t. He’s ashamed of his failure. ‘I’d hoped to speak to you on Sunday after church,’ I add.

Mikkel looks embarrassed.

‘Believe it or not, my father has ordered me to spend less time with you in future. He doesn’t think you are … well, he doesn’t want me to see you as much.’ Mikkel’s words are filled with a cold anger.